


The Shortest Distance

by copperbadge



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, poor coping skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-03
Updated: 2006-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:22:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing a patient, everyone reacts differently; Foreman writes charts, Chase does Sudoku, Wilson goes to the movies, and Cameron kisses Greg House. House can't resist telling Wilson; Wilson can't resist putting his oar in; Cameron can't resist her one shot at pinning House down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_House set down the paddles._

_He'd worked longer on someone before, but what was the point? Even if they got her heart back, there was no chance for a kidney somehow magically making an appearance in the hour or so she had left. Not even time for tests if one did._

_"Time of death, four-twenty three pm," House said in a flat, even voice._

_Chase threw his gloves angrily in the bin. Foreman rubbed his eyes. Cameron, standing next to Wilson, just stared at her face. Wilson stared at House. House picked up the former patient's file._

_"Schedule an autopsy," he said. "Foreman, tell the family."_

***

Cameron found Foreman again in their office, bent over a scattered pile of paper.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Writeup. House'll never chart it right," he replied. "I want to get everything down while it's still fresh. You?"

"Just getting ready to go home. Some day, huh?"

"Yeah," he answered. 

"So...does it help?" 

"What?" he asked, without looking up.

"Working through. Doing the writeup. Putting all the paperwork in order. Does it help you understand it better? Death?"

Foreman did look up then. His face was closed-off, unreadable, but his eyes were dark and wary.

"Is that why you think I do this?" he asked.

"I don't know why. I was just curious."

"Why?"

"Thought if you'd found something to help, it might help me, that's all," Cameron said with a shrug. "Comparing notes."

"It doesn't help," he muttered. "Just keeps me busy until it's time to leave. Tomorrow I can come back and do the rest, and that's another three hours I don't have to think about it."

"Oh."

"You all right?" he asked, returning to the notes.

"Yeah, I guess. Have you seen Chase?"

"Last I saw he was getting into the elevator. You could ask the charge nurse, he was talking with her. Or page him if you really need him."

***

In the maternity ward, nurses came and went, hurrying but not panicking, rolling carts and carrying babies. Chase, with his legs crossed and a clipboard resting on his thigh, sipped from a paper coffee cup. He looked like some kind of peaceful island in the chaos. A peaceful, pretty island, all smooth skin and sleek hair and unworried face. He looked too young to be a doctor at all, let alone a respected specialist working under America's foremost diagnostician. 

"Hi," Cameron said, sitting down next to him.

"Hi-ya," he replied, giving her a friendly look. She glanced at the clipboard; there was a half-finished Sudoku puzzle on it. "How are you?"

"All right," she shrugged. "You?"

"Okay."

"Sudoku, huh?"

"House says it's boring. I find them kind of...soothing."

"Yeah?"

"Mmh."

They sat in silence for a while. 

"You're dying to know why I'm doing Sudoku in the middle of Maternity," he said.

"Mostly just the Maternity part."

"I like it here. Everyone else is always doing something and I don't have to."

"Inactivity is bliss?"

"Something like that. In med school my big reward for doing something was to get to go to the library and do nothing while everyone else worked. It's nice to be still," he continued. "It's an art."

"I couldn't do that."

"I know. That's why you're here."

"I guess."

He sighed and filled in another three squares. "You should go find Wilson, get him to take you out. He always goes out."

"Out?"

"Yeah. Movies, maybe. Or drive to New York and take in a show."

"Matchmaking now?" she asked.

"No! No, nothing like that. Just, you know, someone needs to surgically remove you from the hospital for a bit, I think," he said. "No offence, though."

"It's fine," she said, patting his leg. "Enjoy your puzzle. See you at clinic on Sunday."

"Bright and bloody early," he answered, bending his perfect face back to his puzzle.

***

She hadn't even said hello, and as far as she could tell he hadn't looked up from buckling his bag shut, but he spoke first as she walked through his open office door. Wilson always left his office door open.

"You know," Wilson said, "I'm happy to let House strut around the hospital being the loudest wonder of the modern world, because loud is most of what he has. But, as it turns out, we're both geniuses."

He glanced at her and saw her bewildered expression; he smiled a little, very tiredly. "It makes sense. It's one of the few reasons he puts up with me. You too, I guess."

"Hi," she said warily. "Chase said -- "

"I know why you're here," he interrupted. She watched him finish buckling the bag and untwist the shoulder strap. 

"Why?" she asked finally.

"Coping mechanisms," he answered. "Foreman works, Chase goes where he doesn't have to, and you look for someone to talk it out with."

"There's nothing wrong with that," she said defiantly.

"I didn't say there was," he replied, his voice kind. "It's...good to talk. I'm in favour of it. There's no healthy way to cope with death, but talking is good."

"Chase said you were going out," she blurted.

"Allison," he said, "I want you to promise you'll never go into Oncology."

"I don't -- "

"Death is what I do. All day. By the time people talk to me, most of them are either almost healed or almost dead," he said. She listened, dumbfounded. "I can't cope with that. Nobody could. Coping is something you have to spend all your time and energy on, and I haven't got the energy to spare."

"You have to deal with it somehow," she said.

"Sure. I compartmentalise," he replied. "Leave death at the door. I go home at night and just plain don't think about it. Works remarkably well, with a little practice. And when there's a...hard one, like today, I distract myself."

He shouldered his bag. "I like that you care. I wish I still knew how to care all the time. So do my ex-wives, I'm sure. You want to catch a movie?"

She looked down at her hands, not sure if she was ashamed of being so dissimilar to him, or flattered that he admired something in her, however flawed. 

He walked past her and she followed him out, watching as he locked the door.

"He's up on the roof," he said quietly. 

***

From the roof of the hospital the sky always looked unreal, as though it had been airbrushed in behind the pointed gables and spires of the university buildings nearby. It was unnerving, but that was all right; he only came up to the roof when the world wasn't quite steady beneath his feet anyway, and it was comforting to see actual evidence that something in the universe was out of whack. 

He'd walked too much today, stood for too long. His leg ached and his back twinged with tension from all the muscles he used instead of the missing one. He'd given up on sitting and was lying down instead, leg propped on the ridge of a skylight, cane-handle thumping gently but soothingly against his forehead.

The door creaked. He opened his eyes. The sunset only reached about halfway across the sky now, and there was a dark purple band on the edge of his vision.

"Wilson sent me," Cameron said. 

"Great," House muttered. 

She sat down next to his shoulder, facing away from the skylight, arms around knees. 

"Wilson never got all the way over his psych rotation," he continued.

"He's going to a movie."

"He usually does."

"And you come here?"

"Cheaper than hookers," he said. He glanced at her to see if she would smile; if she did, then there was a good chance she wasn't feeling too awful and she'd leave pretty soon. 

"You're quiet," she said after a pause. "You come up here, watch the clouds..."

"Dream of fluffy white kittens," he sighed. "And you want to _talk_."

"I've lost patients before, I don't want therapy," she retorted. "I just..."

"Some people hide, some seek. Some do Sudoku. The world is mysterious. Om."

She smiled again. Thank Christ; one more joke and she'd leave him alone.

"You're always watching us, aren't you?" she asked.

"I'm always watching everyone. It's a kink."

That time she laughed. 

"What I mean is...someone else wouldn't know that Chase goes down to Maternity and does puzzles. And only Wilson knew you go to the roof. But you know what we do, all of us."

"That's my job. I'm your boss."

"Very leaderlike of you. If Cuddy knew, she'd be so proud her tits would pop right out of her top."

He experienced a sudden moment of complete bafflement before the mental image filled his consciousness with such brilliance that he actually laughed aloud. 

It was as startling to him as anyone else. He propped himself on his elbows and stared at Cameron. She looked quite as confused as he was.

"That's the most vindictive thing I think I've ever heard you say," he observed. 

"It made you laugh," she replied. "You never laugh."

"I..."

"You should laugh more," she said quickly. "It's nice."

"There isn't all that much to laugh about," he muttered, but the effect was pretty much lost on Cameron because she'd leaned forward and was kissing him, which was probably the most effective way to shut him up.

When she finally leaned back again, he opened his eyes and said, "Oh god, this is a dumb idea."

***

Cameron wet her lips nervously and watched House as he lay back and rubbed his chin.

"Not that you're dumb," he added. "That's a note to self, so when I screw this up later I can tell me I told me so."

"Listen, if you don't -- "

He put a finger to his lips and she fell silent. Finally he levered himself to his feet, tapping his cane thoughtfully against the concrete. She stood too, dusting her hands on her trousers.

"Things change," he said to himself. "People don't change, but..."

He looked up. "Come on, I'll take you home."

"I drove my car -- "

"Yeah, and you won't get into it again unless someone threatens to drown a puppy if you don't," he replied over his shoulder as he made for the stairs. "Meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes."

She looked up at the sky, rubbed her arms thoughtfully, and followed him into the building. She packed up her bag, put on her coat, said bye to Foreman; when she came down to the lobby she found House at the admitting desk, talking with Cuddy. 

He saw her, slanted his eyes down at Cuddy, and shook his head subtly. She hid behind a pillar and waited.

Cuddy put her hand on House's arm, big mistake, and House tried to crush her with his wits. She could tell because he made a face, and House's faces were only funny if no soundtrack came attached.

Cuddy, Cameron thought, was pretty much uncrushable. She envied that. Her first week on the job, she'd assumed Cuddy and House were dating because Cuddy was the only one who didn't take his crap. 

Cuddy disappeared into her office. Cameron crept forward.

"A little slicker there, ace, you're not wearing your super secret spy hat," House said as they left. 

"You're the one who was practically shouting at me to hide from the Evil Cuddy."

"Didn't think you could keep a straight face after that remark about her boobies," House answered.

"I'm surprised you did."

"Lots of practice," he said. She glanced at the motorcycle parked nearby.

"Seriously?" she asked. He tossed her a new helmet, put on his own. 

"Wanna go joyriding with the boss?" he leered. 

"Oh yeah. I only agreed so that I could feel up your manly pecs," she retorted. 

He snorted and straddled the machine, sliding up against the gas tank so that she could settle behind him. She still wasn't sure what was going on, but he hadn't fired her or said anything particularly mean. He was precise with his cruelty, like a scalpel -- he wouldn't string her this far along if he was going to shove her back again. 

They zipped out of the parking lot ahead of an SUV that stopped hard and blew its horn. This wasn't the relatively sedate and safe Important Doctor Business trip they'd made last time. This was, she suspected, the kind of driving that was the reason House bought the bike. 

And he wasn't driving in the direction of her apartment. 

"WHERE ARE WE GOING?" she shouted in his ear.

"WHAT?"

"I SAID -- " 

"WHAT?"

She gave up, pressing her face against House's shoulder to protect her nose and mouth. 

After about ten minutes of fast turns and dangerous lane-changes, she realised they weren't _going_ anywhere. House was driving aimlessly, leaping forward to get between two pickups one moment and sliding out to drag race a Toyota the next. The bike was -- he had to know this -- a satisfying deep rumble between her thighs, matching the adrenaline rush every time they swerved. 

When they finally did reach her apartment complex, he braked and killed the engine, tilting the bike slightly to the left as he propped it with his good leg. She let go of his waist and pulled off the helmet, catching her breath. He took his own helmet off, twisted around to look at her over his left shoulder, opened his mouth to say something stupid -- and she kissed him again. 

This time she didn't pull back; instead she slid her tongue between her lips and he opened his mouth and she was french-kissing a hot, famous doctor on his motorcycle. Deep down inside, fifteen-year-old Allison Cameron went _yes!_

***

Greg House was kissing his smart, gorgeous assistant on his motorcycle. Deep down inside, he could hear his fourteen year old self say, with every intention of sounding thrilled and every result of sounding stupid, _Awesome._

Then his right leg cramped up and he jerked back, doubling over. _Ohgodnotwistingtheytoldmenottodothat..._

"Oh my god," he heard Cameron say, and if she hadn't moved with physics-defying speed he would have dropped the bike. She shoved it upright and kicked the stand down as he tried to breathe deeply and pressed his hand against his thigh. 

"Spasm," he groaned. "It'll pass."

He felt her hand slide under his jacket and across his ribcage and was pleased that she'd been observant enough to know where he kept the pill bottle, in the lining-pocket. He managed to sit up and accept the pill, swallowing it despite knowing it was useless -- it wouldn't kick in for a good ten minutes at least. Still, it was a reassuring motion: palm against lips, pill clenched between teeth, saliva on the tongue and swallow. 

When he'd caught his breath, he looked up again. She was watching him, but there was no pity in her eyes. Just worry, and a little bit of regret.

"Never say I don't know how to show a girl a good time," he managed. "For the record, the stabbing pain and your tongue being in my mouth are almost completely unrelated. You didn't give me an infarction." He rested his elbows on the handlebars and his forehead on his crossed wrists. "Enjoy the ride?"

"It was great," she said hesitantly. "You're really good at this."

"I like pissing off people in Beemers," he answered, raising his head to look at her.

"You like pissing off everyone." She smiled at him, that smile she had when she was being infuriatingly naieve or making a point he'd thought he was capable of refuting. 

"You want to come in?" she asked quietly. He looked up at her, then leaned back and gestured her closer. She bent her head slightly and he kissed her again, her fingers threading in his hair, his hand around her wrist. Her pulse was fast and almost irregular. 

"You're not coming in," she said when he finished. She was still smiling.

"No."

"And you kissed me because you want me to know that it's not me, it's you."

"You're learning." He chewed on his lip. "See, when I do something this stupid, I like to draw out the fun part as long as possible."

She picked his helmet up off the ground and put it on his head, then offered him the bottle of Vicodin. 

"Chase and I have clinic on Sunday," she said. "We're off tomorrow."

"I'll pine," he replied, rolling his eyes.

"I'll see you on Monday?"

"Mmhm," he answered, watching her walk up to the front of the building. He waited until she'd let herself inside before he fired up the engine and pulled away. She'd kept the helmet he'd lent her.

He drove on automatic, less dangerously than earlier but not much slower. Lots of new information to gnaw at. New sides to the puzzle. 

Not a puzzle. Cameron. Allison Cameron. Person, not puzzle. Yes. 

A puzzling person, though. He'd seen her changing, but it wasn't actually a change, was it? It was her...growing into herself. The person she was before, that had been the change. Now she was still annoyingly trusting, depressingly optimistic, but because that pleased her. 

Which had been his goal in the first place because he was making a team, not just heading a department. 

He just...never expected it to be half as effective as it was turning out. 

***

Wilson caught a double-feature and got home to his new apartment around ten-thirty. He set his things down on the couch (rented) and walked into the kitchen to pour himself some milk. 

When he turned around, milk in hand, House was standing in front of him, fiddling with his iPod.

"Yargh!" he said, which covered the fact that he was having a heart attack, and jumped backwards. 

House looked up and flinched back as well. "Gaah. Don't you turn on the light when you come in?"

"Don't you turn on the light when you....break into someone's home?" Wilson retorted. 

"Then they'd know I was there," House replied. "Actually I just came over to raid your CDs."

"You broke into my -- "

"Told the landlord I was your brother. You'll be robbed blind if you stay here."

"You snuck into my home to steal my White Album?" Wilson asked. 

"Yeah," House said. "I also ate your leftover chicken."

Wilson gave up. He put the milk away, took out two beers, and walked into the living room, rubbing his forehead. "Download your music illegally like everyone else."

"If I wanted five thousand copies of The Closet I would."

"That Mr. Kelly, he's quite the novelist," Wilson said. "So...what, are you tired of The Who? Gregory, have you lost your mojo? Have the blues failed you? Radiohead insufficient for your angst?"

House leaned on his cane and bit his lip. Finally he sat down.

"I kissed Cameron," he said. "I need an appropriate soundtrack to which I can fuck up my life."

Wilson stared at him. "You what?"

"Neeeeeeed aaaaaa neeeeeew plaaaaaaayliiiiiist -- " 

"Hooo, rewind a second," Wilson said. "You kissed her? When? Where?"

"Ohmawgaw, are we going to eat ice cream and giggle about it?" House asked, clasping his hands dramatically. 

"Where?"

"On the mouth."

"Geographically."

"That's not geographic enough for you?"

Wilson gave him a look and House leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "On the roof. And in front of her apartment. Are you done flipping out now?" 

"Not even begun. I thought you hated her. _She_ thought you hated her."

"Is everyone but me oblivious to the fact that liking someone and wanting to fuck them senseless are two separate concepts?"

"So you don't actually -- "

"I didn't say that." House groaned. "This is going to mess up my entire life. It was just how I wanted it..."

"You're a miserable gimp addicted to painkillers whose sole joy in life comes from shouting at people," Wilson said. "If that was what you dreamed of as a child, your parents needed to put you in therapy way earlier."

"That's not true. I also enjoy Game Boy."

"House."

House rolled his eyes. "I have a tenured job that lets me do what I want. I have a good team. Things work. Not great, but they work. Besides, nobody's ever as happy as they think they should be."

Wilson was quiet while he tried to think of how he wanted to phrase things, but eventually he gave up. House would risk everything to solve the puzzle, but he wouldn't even comprehend the idea of risking anything for the chance to be happy with someone. 

"Then why did you kiss her?" he asked.

"She kissed me first."

"Why?"

"Because she's maladjusted?"

"Dr. House, I think it's for you. Yeah -- it's the kettle. Would you like to call him black?" Wilson offered House an imaginary telephone. 

"I laughed," House said.

"What?"

"I laughed at a joke she made about Cuddy's breasts. I think she kissed me because I laughed at one of her jokes."

Wilson tried to process House laughing at a joke Cameron made, Cameron making a joke about Cuddy's breasts, and Cuddy's breasts in any way leading to his best friend kissing a beautiful immunologist on the roof of the hospital. It was all a bit much.

"That's what women do, right? I vaguely recall this," House continued. 

Wilson tapped his fingers on his lips, thoughtfully.

"You broke into my home because you didn't want to spend the whole night trying to figure this out on your own," he said. "And you don't want to try to figure this out on your own because you know what the answer is and you just don't like it. It means you might have to actually open up to another human being. To _Cameron,_ " he added, knowing that it was the frosting on the dysfunctional cake. "And if you do that you might have to start listening to what she thinks about humanity and being nicer and not kicking puppies anymore."

"I can be in love with someone and not listen to them, I'm also _that_ good," House retorted. "Ask Stacy."

Wilson savoured the moment. "You don't want to make freudian slips around her and let one more person know you well enough to beat you in poker," he continued.

"She probably doesn't even _like_ \-- "

" _You_ are being intentionally thick about this because you don't want me to tell you what any normal person would already have come to grips with."

House sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine, go ahead."

"Allison is one of the best things that ever happened to you, aside from me of course," Wilson said. "If you blow her off now you're an unmitigated asshole. She _likes_ you, House, and all your reasons for not dating her were crap and you know it. This could be the real thing. Be a man and don't fuck it up."

House leaned forward, resting his chin on his cane.

"How do I not fuck it up?" he asked quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

She'd never have admitted it to House, but Cameron had come to hate clinic duty with a passion almost equal to his. She knew Foreman felt the same way; she wasn't sure if Chase did, but then Chase was oddly quiet on some topics and rarely complained without reason or when complaining wouldn't solve anything. 

It had been interesting at first, all the different people who came in from all walks of life, even people who didn't _need_ a free clinic. After a while, though, they all blurred together and some of them really were stunningly stupid. At least it meant she could do most of it on autopilot, which freed up the rest of her mind to fret. Allison Cameron was a world-class fretter. She'd spent all Saturday fretting, wondering if House would call and knowing he wouldn't, wondering what the hell was going to happen on Monday and whether the whole thing was going to be some joke he indulged in the next time he saw her. 

"Got the sniffles in number two; pay you five bucks to do it," Chase said to her as she made a note in her previous patient's file and passed it to the nurse. 

"Hot babe in number three?" she asked. He grinned. "Fine. You stall number three babe, I'll see number two and the sprained ankle in number one, then you buy me lunch."

"What if I want to buy number three lunch?" he asked. She craned her neck to check the file.

"Better sprinkle some Arithromycin on her sandwich. Chlamydia," she beamed, and made a hasty exit while Chase groaned, "Oh god, it's always the hot ones!"

The sniffles were an easy fix and the sprained ankle just needed an icepack and a doctor's note to get the kid out of PE. She clocked out right at noon and handed off her files, knocking on the door to exam three. 

"Come in," Chase called, and she put her head in the door. 

"Hi," said an extremely good-looking woman, sitting on the end of the exam bed.

"Dr. Cameron, this is Lydia," Chase said.

"Hi, Lydia," Cameron said in her best I'm A Professional Doctor Person voice. "I'm ready when you are."

"No you aren't," Chase grinned. "House wants you."

"What?" she asked, startled.

"Dunno. Guess he wants an immunology consult on a case. He's right out there. Came in, asked where you were, flirted with Lydia..."

Number Three Lydia giggled. "He did not. He told me to keep my legs closed. As _if_."

Cameron gave Chase the 'oh man, you're about to be really stupid' look and turned around. House _was_ there, sitting in the waiting room with a clearance of at least three empty chairs on either side, his cane cocked against his leg, a paper bag on the seat next to him. 

She didn't understand how anyone -- especially House himself -- could say he wasn't good-looking. Between the worn jeans and the vintage leather bike jacket, the Death Valley shirt underneath and the cocky look that never quite went completely away, especially when he was slouched insolently against the wall...

She was staring. House narrowed his eyes at her. 

"I'll -- get a rain check on lunch," she said, turning back to Chase. "Nice to meet you, Lydia."

House didn't stand or even move very much as she walked up to him, just tilted his head up and a little to one side, watching her. She crossed her arms.

"Got the sniffles?" she asked.

"I think there might be something wrong with my leg," he deadpanned. 

"You're voluntarily in the clinic."

"Jesus, is that what this place is?"

"Chase said you wanted me?"

His lips curled upwards. She felt herself blush. Then she felt herself grin back.

"You couldn't wait, could you?" she asked, teasing. " _You_ wanted to _see me._ "

"Oh god, are you going to be like this for the rest of eternity?" he asked. "I want a consult." He hoisted himself out of the chair and picked up the bag, leading the way to the elevators. 

"You have a patient?" she asked. He hit the button for the fourth floor. 

"I have lunch," he parried, offering her the paper bag. She took it and peered inside, but it was mostly bundles wrapped in paper. The elevator beeped and they walked to the Diagnostics office in silence. Inside, she set the bag down on the table and began unpacking it while he walked to the sink and took down their mugs. 

"Reuben...yours..." she said, setting it down. "Which means....turkey on pumpernickel is mine."

"Oh -- I didn't mean I brought lunch for _you,_ " he said. "I'm saving that one for later."

"You don't like pumpernickel," she said, unwrapping it. He handed her the white mug she liked and a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. 

"Well, now that you've got cooties all over it," he sighed, sitting down.

"So who's the patient?" she asked. "And who paid you how much to get you in to see someone on a Sunday?"

He looked down at his sandwich, picking at a stray corner of corned beef. His mouth twisted into that shape it got when he was pretending that not-saying-anything was the same thing as not-lying. 

"You....don't have a patient?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. 

"No," he admitted reluctantly.

"You brought me lunch? Just...because?" she prodded. He glared at her. "That's so....cute."

He picked up his sandwich and deliberately took an especially messy bite so that he wouldn't have to answer her. 

"You brought me lunch because I had clinic hours and you knew that I was here all day," she said gleefully. "And you wanted to see me."

"We should talk," he said.

"Isn't that my line?"

"Wilson says I should make every effort not to screw this up," he blurted abruptly. "This. Thing. Whatever it is."

She stopped mid-bite and swallowed. "Um. Maybe not telling me that you told Wilson about us would have been a good start? I'd kind of like to preserve the illusion that he respects me as a doctor."

"If only you knew how ironic _that_ was," he replied cryptically.

"So...what exactly did we need to discuss?"

"Well, you're not stupid enough to think I'm going to treat you any differently and you're not quite cynical enough to think you can get any kind of advantage over Foreman and Chase out of it," he said. "You clearly have no issues dating someone twice your age and you're already pretty aware of the fact that I don't do the happy families thing -- "

"Wow," she said, staring at him. He paused.

"What? Did I grow a third eye?" he asked.

"No, I'm just...kind of impressed by your complete lack of grip," she said. He blinked. "Love isn't a disease, you can't...diagnose it and predict the viral path. You can't do a differential on your sex life."

"God, you're innocent," he said. "Of course you can. I do it all the time. In the last five years I've had at least three relationships in my head. Charted them all out, start to finish. Saves the time of actually having them."

"Yeah, god forbid you should enjoy something in the moment," she drawled. 

"I can chart out this one," he retorted. 

"Can you?" she lifted an eyebrow.

"You and I do this, thing, whatever, we go out to eat, we go to movies, you tell your mom about some guy you're seeing, I mutter something to my parents to get my dad off my back about it, someone has a birthday, someone else gets them a present. We have sex," he said, and she felt her stomach tighten pleasantly. "You are caring and understanding and extremely good about the fact that I have half my thigh missing. Word discreetly spreads. Foreman notices first, he tells Chase, Chase giggles about it to a nurse, but the whole thing eventually blows over because I'm actually being nice to people and Cuddy thinks we're cute together."

"Are you nice to people when you get laid regularly?" she asked.

"Not really."

"Shame. I'd have taken up a collection."

"You're funny. So eventually you move in -- "

"I do?"

"Well, _I'm_ not moving," he said. "Life is good, for a little while. We work together, we get each other, the sex is fantastic," he adds, and his eyes dip down from hers to chart the slim curve of her breasts. "But I'm still a jerk. And you still need validation. And one day the call comes and you've got an offer. It's your big chance. Your whole career ahead of you. So...I give you a glowing letter of recommendation, send you on your way, and in a few years I'm old friends with the head of Immunology at Johns Hopkins or wherever."

"You could come with me to Johns Hopkins," she said.

"I don't like change."

"I'd noticed."

"I just screwed this up, didn't I."

"It's almost a record," she agreed. "Except for the part where you didn't actually screw it up."

He cocked his head at her.

"I think all the fantastic sex you mentioned and life being good and Chase gossiping about us to some nurse...might be worth it," she said. "Besides, your differentials have been wrong before."

"Cameron -- "

"Speaking of the sex," she added, unable to resist, "do we have to wait until it's one of _our_ birthdays, or can it be _anyone_ 's birthday? I mean, it's bound to be someone's birthday pretty much every day, down in Maternity."

The stare he gave her wasn't one she'd ever seen before, and she thought she was familiar with all of them. It was hungry and frightened and she thought about what Dr. Wilson had once said to her, that he wasn't afraid of _her_ getting hurt at all. 

"Thanks for lunch," she added, wrapping up the other half of the sandwich. "This was fun. Walk me to the elevator?"

He stood silently and she waited while he circled the table, knowing he hated to have someone hold the door for him. They didn't even touch as they walked down the hallway. They didn't kiss in front of the elevator. The door was actually closing before he lifted his cane up and stopped it. 

"I suck at dating," he said, as it slid open again.

"Yeah, I know," she answered. "I also knew you were going to stop the elevator door."

He raised his eyebrows. She wasn't sure if he leaned forward or she did or if they both just made the decision, but he had to shove his cane up against the elevator door to keep it from closing on them as they kissed. 

"Tomorrow night," she said. "Take me to the movies. I'll buy you a popcorn."

"No chick flicks."

She hit the door-close button and he stepped back, out of its way. In the solitude of the elevator, she allowed one smug, triumphant smile before composing herself to face the rest of the afternoon at the clinic. 

***

Predictably, Wilson found her before House even came in on Monday. He found her before Foreman and Chase came in, too. 

She liked Dr. Wilson. He was kind without being stupid, he stood by House on the many times it was necessary, and he was always in early. They'd formed a sort of Early Bird's club, and if she was eating breakfast in the cafeteria she could always go sit with him, he never minded. 

"I was...hoping you'd be here," he said, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. "Got a minute?"

She closed the file she was reviewing and took her glasses off, leaning back. "I've had the big-brother speech from you already, you know."

"Ah. Yeah. I do seem to get stuck with that," he sighed, rubbing his neck. 

"House told you about Friday."

"Listen, when I told you he was on the roof, I thought he'd probably send you off with some kind of grand, Houselike proclamation that you could get upset about all weekend and that'd distract you..."

"Well, it kind of worked," she said. "I was definitely distracted."

"Yeah," he said, laughing a little. "You and him both."

"I'm not playing with him," she said pre-emptively.

"I didn't dream you were," he said. "For one thing, you're _way_ not manipulative enough. If you tried to play games with Greg House you'd lose badly."

"Thanks."

"Sorry. You spend too much time around House, you learn how pointless lying can be." He sighed. "Just, if he's not any different today, you know, you shouldn't expect..."

"We talked yesterday," she said shortly. He did a creditable double take.

"You did?"

"He came to clinic hours. He brought me lunch," she said, just a little smugly. 

"O...kay," Wilson said, looking dazed. "That's new."

"He said you told him not to screw up."

"That...is not far from the truth. Is he...trying? Not to screw up?"

"He's taking me to a movie tonight."

"I strongly suggest you pick something with lots of explosions in it," Wilson said. "And...um. Good luck?"

"Thanks," she said with a smile. He wandered off, looking as if his world was rearranging itself in front of his eyes. Chase and Foreman passed him coming in and greeted her with the usual Monday-morning cynicism. 

"Do you ever go home?" Chase asked.

"That's the place where I keep my bed, right?" 

"What'd Wilson want?" Foreman said.

"Looking for House," she improvised. 

"What, he forgot House doesn't know what nine am looks like?"

"I guess."

House showed up an hour later, file in hand.

"Twenty-five year old male," he said, in greeting. "Presenting with high blood pressure and a heart attack..." he checked the clock, "five hours ago."

"...and?" Chase said. House raised his eyebrows. "Heart attack is not enough to interest you."

"Very good." House tossed the file down on the table. Foreman opened it and studied the intake form. Cameron was watching House; he gave her a subtle leer while the other two began examining the file. 

"Better hustle, doctor, the boys are getting ahead of you," he said, and Cameron leaned over Chase's shoulder, suitably chastised. 

***

Twelve hours later House was wearing nothing except his leather jacket. Cameron was wearing nothing at all. And straddling his lap. Which...hurt.

"Ow," he said. She grinned and grabbed his shoulder. Hard. "Ow, _again._ "

"I'm not stopping," she replied, but she said it in Wilson's voice, which was creepy enough that House bounded out of REM sleep. 

" _Ow,_ " he insisted, shoving away the hand that was shaking his shoulder. Wilson was leaning over him, frowning.

He found himself in his office chair, the good one, not the desk chair, with his right leg cocked at an uncomfortable angle. The lights were out, and nearby he could hear the headphones in his iPod playing tinny ragtime. They must have fallen out when he drifted off.

"Heart-attack boy seized," he said.

"My night is complete," House muttered. 

"Cameron's in with him now. They're bonding. It's keeping him calm, anyway. Chase is wooing the girlfriend in the hallway to keep _her_ calm."

"What's Foreman doing, sitting on his thumb?" House checked the clock. Nearly eleven at night. "Why are you still here?"

"My dedication to not seeing you live out the rest of your life as a miserable, lonely asshole is astounding," Wilson answered. He tossed a bag on House's lap. Inside were two small, square white envelopes, a packet of microwave popcorn, and a jumbo bag of M&Ms. House looked up at him. 

"I was staying late waiting for some labs, Cameron mentioned the movies were off because you were pulling an all-nighter with heart-attack boy." 

"Netflix," House said, taking out the two envelopes. "And food from the gift shop. You know, there's this thing called cancelling a date..."

"And there's this other thing called improvising, which is what real doctors do," Wilson replied.

"Are you sure you don't want to just date her yourself and get it over with?"

"We both know that nobody is ever going to put up with you without me around," Wilson said. "I'm like some kind of twisted relationship hinge. It's annoying, trust me."

House grinned up at him. "You want in on a _threesome!_ "

"What? No!"

"Admit it, you'd love to tap that pretty little ass -- "

"I'm not into Cameron."

"Who said I was talking about Cameron?"

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Rework your differential, do your labs, and then invite Cameron into your office to watch a movie. She'll be charmed."

"That raises expectations way too high. I can't be charming all the time."

"You can't be charming, period."

House nodded. "My point. Labs'll take a few hours, that's enough time for..." he studied the Netflix envelopes. "28 Days Later or...." He held up the other envelope. "Howl's Moving Castle? Seriously?"

"Explosions AND romance!" Wilson said enthusiastically. House rolled his eyes. "Hey, I just spent three dollars on your future happiness."

"I'll name my first child after you," House answered, getting to his feet. He set the bag on the chair and winced, downing a Vicodin on autopilot. In the other room, his assistants were filing in with piles of papers and files and clipboards and things. "Okay, time to go play doctor."

***

Heart-attack boy had leveled out after the seizure and was sleeping; House sent Foreman and Chase home and set Cameron to running a few dozen tests. After he'd checked on the patient himself, read the new notes on the chart, and stood undecidedly in the hall for about ten minutes, he went to find her.

She was sitting in the lab, a book on her lap, reading peacefully. She looked up when he came in. 

"How long until we get the first results back?" he asked. She offered him a sheaf of papers. He paged through them, found nothing of interest, and set them aside. "When does the next one finish?"

"About two hours."

"Do you have to sit by their bedside in case they wake up and start crying?" he asked. She looked at him, puzzled. "You don't need to stay in the lab."

"No, I guess not, but it's not like we could just -- "

"Break into Wilson's office? Sure we can," he said. She followed him out the door and down the hallway, into the Diagnostics office. He picked up a brown paper bag and passed through the doorway onto the balcony, got over the low wall between his and Wilson's with surprising grace, and popped Wilson's door open.

"He doesn't lock it?" she asked.

"Only way in is through Diagnostics," House answered. "Nobody goes there if they can help it."

"Why are we breaking into Dr. Wilson's -- "

"Couch," he interrupted. 

He dropped onto the couch that was shoved up against one wall of Wilson's spacious office and indicated the shelf in front of the opposite wall, where a small television sat. He offered her the bag. 

"Chocolate and....microwave popcorn and...28 Days Later," she said. 

"You're an immunologist, I'm in infectious diseases, it should be a laugh," he answered. 

"Wilson really needs to get a girlfriend," she said with a grin.

"What, I can't be thoughtful on my own?"

"Theoretically?" she asked. 

"It's that or infomercials," he said, pointing to the DVD. She tossed the package of popcorn on his lap as she put it in the DVD player on the low shelf. He leaned across the arm of the couch to where a microwave sat on top of a small fridge. 

"This office is basically a swingin' bachelor pad," he said, using his cane to push the fridge door open. No beer; damn. 

"He spends a lot of time in here," she said, with that 'I'm so sympathetic and admiring' voice. House shut the fridge door and hit the popcorn button with his knuckle. She dropped down next to him -- he'd carefully positioned himself so that she'd have to sit on his left -- and hit play on the remote. 

***

She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves; not just the fact that he kept his left hand on the cane tucked between his legs or the tightness of his left thigh, just barely touching hers, but the set of his jaw and tilt of his head. She knew his body language well enough by now, since half the time body language was all she had to go on. His chin was tilted down, jaw taut, eyes lifted slightly so he could still look ahead. He was uncomfortable, and trying to think of something to say. 

She hesitated before reaching out and uncurling his hand from the cane, taking it with her other hand so that she could twine her fingers in his. He looked sidelong at her, didn't say anything, looked back at the film. Curling up with Greg House was a little like cuddling an anvil, but gradually he relaxed, leaning back slightly. 

Just in time for the loud, sudden BLEEEEP of the microwave finishing its cycle. They both jumped. 

He turned to look at her; she was already half-turned, and looked back. 

"If the microwave scares you, it's going to be really hard not to mock you when the zombies show up," he said. 

"I work with Foreman. I'm not afraid of zombies."

He laughed low in his throat; it was almost startling to hear, instead of his usual sharp retort. She pressed gently on his shoulder and he leaned back, relaxing a little. 

The movie was, in its own way, oddly soothing; it was predictable and, from an infectious diseases point of view, highly mockable. When he wasn't aiming his surgical wit at other people, House was pretty funny. 

And, when he wasn't actively searching for new ways to be offputting, he relaxed a few orders of magnitude, little by little. By the end of the film she had managed to insinuate herself under his arm, up against his shoulder. He smelled like antiseptic soap, not the most alluring scent in the world, but familiar and reassuring. He was breathing slowly and deeply, and he hadn't taken a Vicodin since the differential meeting, almost three hours ago. 

If anyone had told her when she took the job that two years later she'd be curled up on the head of Oncology's couch with Greg House, she'd have snickered at the idea. If anyone else knew she was, they'd probably be snickering and House would already be trying to find a way to bolt. 

"The tests are going to be done soon," she said quietly, as the last scene faded out. 

"Good timing," he rumbled, not bothering to move. She sat up a little and kissed his cheek, felt his jaw tense again. 

"Don't do that," she said.

"Do what?"

"Clench. You clench, then I clench -- " he snorted and she grinned, leaning forward a little more to kiss him on the mouth. He craned his neck slightly to get a better angle and she felt one warm hand on her face, palm covering her ear. When he pulled back she followed intently, unwilling to let him run away just yet. He caught her shoulder, balancing her as she leaned over him.

"This is awkward," he muttered. 

"I'm a doctor," she said, then grinned. "Just tell me if it hurts."

That drew an actual laugh out of him and she slid across his lap, straddling his legs; when he didn't wince or stiffen in pain, she shifted forward slightly. 

"You okay?" she asked.

"You'll know if I'm not," he replied. 

"Figured as much."

A little voice in her head that actually sounded suspiciously like Dr. Wilson was pointing out that she was now pretty much fully making out with her boss on Dr. Wilson's couch. Then House slid one hand under her shirt and across the small of her back, and she completely stopped caring. It was all Wilson's fault anyway. 

He couldn't move much, but she could; she arched her back and let him kiss her throat, following his lead. His other hand was deftly undoing the buttons of her shirt and his mouth followed. The hand on her back was sliding further upwards, towards the obvious goal of unhooking her bra, and she wasn't going to be able to look Wilson in the eye in the morning -- 

Her pager went off.

Then his pager went off. 

He leaned back, thudding his head against the wall gently. She unclipped her pager from her belt and examined it. 

"He's had another heart attack," she said.

"Me too," House answered, eyes still closed. She took his pager out of his pocket; same message.

"The workout's good for you," she said, amused. "We should go."

"Yeah," he agreed, sounding annoyed. She slid carefully off his lap and began rebuttoning her shirt. He reached for his cane, shoved himself upright, and casually readjusted his belt. "I hate patients."

"I know -- " she started to say, but he leaned forward and kissed her, voluntarily, _eagerly_ , one hand on her hip.

"Rain check," he said. "Tomorrow night or whenever heart attack boy dies."

Her eyes widened a little at the callousness of his suggestion, but he kissed her again and she thought about how he'd looked on the roof on Friday after they lost the last patient. It wasn't a joke or a test, just him being House. House, she could deal with.

The next morning, Wilson opened his microwave to heat some water for tea and was startled to find a bag of cold microwave popcorn already in it.


	3. Chapter 3

"You look awful," Chase said the next morning, arriving with bagels and looking far too well-rested. 

"Thanks," Cameron replied. She was highly conscious that she'd only had three hours sleep and showered in the hospital locker room, that she had no makeup on and hadn't been able to do much with her hair beyond tie it back in a ponytail. 

"Sorry. Long night? Did you sleep here?"

"Yes and...yes. Labs," she said. "And then another heart attack, and some more labs, but we think everything's cleared up now."

"Yeah? What was it?"

"Broken heart," House said, appearing in the doorway. He rubbed his eyes and made a beeline for the percolating coffee. Chase looked inquiringly at Cameron, who passed him the file.

"Nice," he remarked. "You should write this up."

"I might," she admitted. "Gotta get something out of the all-nighter, right?" 

She was gratified to hear a quiet choking noise from House, standing behind her. 

"Anything new?" Chase asked, closing the file. Foreman pushed the door open with his shoulder, carrying his breakfast and a coffee in with him.

"Not a thing," House said, standing at the window and looking out, casually propping his cane against his hip. "Catch up on your email, do a couple of crosswords, rob the vending machines, go home early. Cameron." 

She looked up at him.

"Go home now. You look like crap."

She winced inwardly, but she knew herself and Wilson and House had both warned her not to expect anything different. 

"I want to make sure he's really stable," she replied. "I'll stay."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Pining for the kid with the broken heart? Sweet."

"Seriously, we can handle it," Chase said.

"I'll stay."

"You're a masochist," House replied. "Chase, ask her out. Oh wait -- it's been done."

Chase blushed; even his blush was pretty and perfect, just barely staining his cheeks. House turned around finally and leaned against the window. It put most of him in shadow, but he had to know what it did to his eyes; they were almost luminous in the sidelight. 

"You're useless without any rest. Twenty-four hour rotations are the reason we're not interns and ER doctors," he said. " _Go home._ "

She rubbed her eyes indecisively. 

"Oh, for god's sake. You, mind the plantation," he said, pointing at Foreman with his cane. "Pretty boy can keep an eye on our patient."

He came forward and smacked Cameron in the legs. "I'll drive you home."

She looked up at him and realised she was hopelessly checkmated, and he'd probably intended this from the start; he knew she'd put up a fight about leaving. With a sardonic look at the other two, she gathered up her bag and shed her lab coat, pulling on yesterday's jacket. House was already heading down the hallway.

"When it's a choice between staying here and subjecting yourself to House's driving, I'd stay the hell here," Foreman said.

"I don't think I have a choice," she answered, as the door swung shut. House was holding the elevator for her, standing next to a man in a wheelchair and what appeared to be his wife. After the door shut, he turned to her.

"So if I grab your ass, is that still harassment?" he asked. The other couple in the elevator looked at him curiously. "Young love," he informed them.

"House," she said through clenched teeth.

"Don't mind them, they don't care. Do you care?" he asked them. The woman shook her head.

"If I were ten years younger I'd do it myself," the man croaked hoarsely. The woman swatted him on the back of the head.

"See? He's practically ordering me," House said. "Hands off, she's mine," he added to the man.

"Lucky bastard."

She half expected that House would actually do it right there in the elevator, but instead he just inched closer and rested his hand on her hip, almost...subtly. Though when the elevator slowed and the doors began to open he did slide his fingers across her ass as he let his hand drop.

"House!" Cuddy called from her office doorway as they passed through the clinic.

"Can't stop now!" he shouted back. "Taking Cameron home to have my wicked way with her."

"God, you're a perpetual lawsuit," Cuddy replied, but she saw the dark circles under Cameron's eyes and didn't push the matter further. 

They passed his motorcycle and she was reaching for her keys when he took them from her.

"I meant it. I slept last night," he said. "Passenger's seat."

She rolled her eyes as she got in. "If you crash my car -- "

"I am an extremely safe driver. Ask any of the cops who gave me a speeding ticket," he said, closing the driver's-side door behind him. She was turning to say something smart that she hadn't quite come up with yet when he turned too and kissed her, startlingly and greedily. 

"My days of making out in cars are over," he said when he leaned back. 

"All evidence to the contrary."

He started her car and backed out, and to her gratification drove much more safely than he had last time. 

***

Just because he drove Cameron home didn't mean he had to walk her to her apartment, of course.

But, he reasoned, if he did, he could phone for a cab from there instead of from her car, and it wasn't safe to use cellular telephones while driving. 

Just because he walked her to her door, though, didn't mean he expected an invitation in, or even wanted one. She _was_ tired, so was he; she should sleep. He should go back to the office before the other two got suspicious. 

"You want to come in?" she asked. 

Just because he went in didn't mean he had to stay, of course. He could call for the cab from inside, and he'd get a look at her apartment too, which was a bonus. Peoples' homes fascinated him. Hers had been ridiculously tidy the last time he'd seen it.

And, of course, just because he was inside her apartment and she was taking off her coat and undoing her hair didn't mean he had to kiss her or anything. 

Except, standing rather awkwardly in the middle of her still excruciatingly clean apartment, he watched her hang up her coat and set her bag on the couch and then walk back to him and wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. 

Which didn't mean he had to do anything more. He could leave anytime he wanted. 

He knew Cameron was small, bones-thin almost, but it was different -- had been different -- to feel that physically, to put his hands on her hips like he was doing now (not that he had to) and feel the size of her and still know how solid and stubborn she was. Her skin was cool under his fingertips where her shirt had hiked up a little, and he couldn't resist sliding one hand down for the promised ass-grab. She laughed against his mouth and slid a hand up into his hair. 

But he didn't have to stay, and she wanted her sleep, and this was clearly a "thanks for driving me home" kiss. He eased back a little and let go of her ass, which was just as stunning as he'd expected. 

"You're tired," he said. "It's been a long day -- "

"You don't have to do that," she said. "I know you're an opportunist."

He grinned just a little at that. "I'm tired too."

"Do you want to go?" she asked. He fumbled for a truth he could substitute for the real truth. 

"Chase and Foreman are going to wonder where I am."

"Do you want to go?"

"I wouldn't be very -- "

"Greg," she said, and he looked down at her, startled. She smiled. "You didn't think I was going to call you Doctor House?" she asked. "Now _that_ would be inappropriate."

"It's -- "

"Soon?" she asked. 

"Yeah."

"For you or for me?" She untwined one of her hands from around his neck and slid it over his shoulder, down his chest. "You're not frightened."

He took a moment to actually examine whether he was or not. 

Intrigued; turned on; fascinated that she apparently had more kitchen appliances than God; not frightened. 

And he'd never been one for taking it slow before.

"No," he agreed. She kissed his jaw and he felt her fingers slide down his ribcage, tugging at his shirt. He shrugged his jacket off and let it fall on the floor (take that, tidiness!) and tugged his shirt off, grabbing her hands when she reached for his belt. Damned if he was going to be the first one naked in this situation. 

She laughed and let him undo the _thousands of annoying buttons_ on her shirt, his other hand skimming over her back, reaching for the bra that he'd almost gotten undone last night. She let the shirt fall off and pressed against him, kissing him again. He decided to let the bra alone and grabbed her ass again, pinning her there. 

"Nice," he said against her cheek. 

"If I didn't know you were king of understatement..." She nuzzled his neck where it met the crook of his shoulder. He bit her earlobe gently while he was trying to work out a tactical way of bringing up the subject of what his leg would and would not handle. Considering he was having his collarbone nipped by someone fifteen years younger than he was, it wasn't a bad idea to bring up the questionable status of his stamina, either -- 

"Couch or bed?" she asked, breath warm on his skin.

"Couch's closer," he said, closing his eyes.

"Bed's nicer."

He didn't want her to see him limp, not right here and right now. It was a completely irrational desire, and she'd seen him limp everywhere for two and a half years, but he remembered the shame and humiliation the first time Stacy had seen him try to walk -- 

"Bed," he managed, feeling the flush of shame spread down his throat and across his bare chest. He also felt her fingers hook in his belt and tug gently; when he opened his eyes she was looking up at his face, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. She kept her eyes on his the whole way there, and he was grateful, and then he felt pathetic for feeling grateful. Who was whose boss here, anyway?

He channeled all the sudden frustration and instinct for control into stopping her at the edge of the bed (her bedroom was messier; good sign) and stripping off the rest of her clothes. She didn't seem to mind, even when he gave her enough of an off-center push to send her sprawling on the bed. She propped herself on her elbows and watched as he turned away and leaned against the wall, ungracefully and definitely unsexily getting his shoes and socks off. When he started on his belt, she spoke again.

"Hey -- turn around."

Damn. Why did he have to train them so damn well? He'd just about managed to turn so that she wouldn't see his leg. 

"Busy here," he muttered, hands frozen on the waistband of his trousers. 

"Turn around," she said. 

"Why?"

"Because I want to see you."

He turned, reluctantly, and took off the rest of his clothing. He waited for -- some reaction; clinical detachment was probably the best he could hope for, and he _was_ hoping, desperately. Pity would have stopped him in his tracks.

But she wasn't looking at the leg at all. She was following the line of his body, from his chest down over his stomach to his erection. She didn't even look.

He managed not to hop too much as he came forward and knelt on the bed with his left leg, sliding up against her body. 

"Nobody who makes that many jokes about cripples could possibly be secure about it," she said, kissing him. 

"Nobody who sees me naked doesn't look at it," he replied. 

"I don't need to. I'm much more interested in other parts of your body," she breathed, leaning against him so that he rolled onto his back. She rolled with him, drawing her really astounding legs up against his.

"Not much on foreplay," he observed, and gave her just enough time to hesitate before adding wickedly, "I like that in a woman."

She was probably kissing him to keep him from talking; lord knew she wouldn't be the first. 

"Condom," she muttered, sprawling across him to reach for the nightstand. Oh god, it was every cliche ever...

He moaned and sat up on his elbows to watch; backlit by the light from the living room, he couldn't see much more than her silhouette, but he could see the curves of her breasts and hips, the fall of her hair over her shoulder, and he wondered idly why it had taken him two years to get her alone on Wilson's couch long enough to make out with her. 

"What?" she asked, smiling at him. He was about to say something witty, he was certain of it, but she touched him and rolled the condom down his cock and whatever he had been planning on saying came out sounding like "Hummh" instead. 

"So that's how I get you to shut up," she said, and then she shifted her hips slightly and bit her lip and he had the momentary insane thought that she might be the last to kiss him in order to shut him up. On a kind of permanent basis. 

She wasn't Stacy, she didn't know how to do this beyond basic medical knowledge and there were a few jabs of pain, but fortunately pain and pleasure sound pretty alike in a dark room and when they finally found a rhythm together god, of course she wasn't like Stacy, she was _Allison._ She liked it when he bit her throat and shoulders and licked his tongue into her mouth and she liked to feel their hips rub together and she made short, breathy sounds when he arched his back and she had one of the most satisfying-sounding orgasms of his admittedly not _terribly_ diverse experience. 

He caught his breath and flexed his leg a little while she lay on his chest afterwards, one hand touching his arm, the other pillowing her head. For one of the few times in his life, he couldn't think of something to say.

"Totally worth turning down Johns Hopkins for," she managed, and he laughed, full and deep. 

***

"You look relaxed," Chase said as Wilson wandered into the Diagnostics office, carrying a cup of coffee. "Hear about House's patient?"

"Yeah -- glad to see he's doing better," Wilson replied. "Where's House?"

"He took Cameron home. She wasn't looking too good."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "They were here all night?"

"Seems that way," Foreman said from the computer desk. Wilson grinned to himself. "What?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking -- either of you know the movie _White Christmas_?" he asked.

"Don't think so," Chase said. Foreman shook his head. 

"There's this scene where two friends are talking about why one of them keeps setting the other up on dates, and how annoying it is, and the guy says to the other guy something like _I want you to get married. I want you to have nine children. And if you only spend five minutes a day with each kid, that's forty-five minutes I could have all to myself._ "

Foreman and Chase both stared at him, looking lost.

"Don't know why I thought of it," Wilson said smugly.


End file.
